Wrong for Right
by Nozidoz
Summary: Ian Howe was through with living a life of fear and servitude. Finding the treasure seemed to be his only answer, nevertheless, he was caught. Sitting in a prison, with thanks to Ben Gates, Ian soon realizes that the journey he set out for isn't over.
1. The Prologue

**A/N: This is in Ian's POV. And first of all, I want to apologize for the long, long prologue that is probably far too wordy and boring. I had a small one-and it ended up becoming quite large as the late night hours grew into early morning hours. Forgive me. I'm sorry….I had never written anything for anyone to see before, so the stress dwelled on me. I am a bit nervous that I messed this prologue up. But, read on! You can decide what you think. And, if you don't mind…sharing a few words with me?**

**Got any ideas for the story? Any feedback or just what you wanted to say? I'd love to hear it! I want to know if I can continue on with this.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Sadly.**

**The Prologue:**

"This is it? We came all this way for a dead end?"

He lied to me. Again. It shouldn't have surprised me though. For as long as I had known Benjamin, which was somewhere between one to two years, I should have learned the accustomed lies that came as part of the Gates family package.

He usually didn't straight out lie to me, but somehow he bent the truth-or fooled me in ways that rotted my stomach when I finally found the truth. He was the most difficult man I had ever known, and yet the most intriguing. He was truly a capable friend-but friends never lasted forever. Not with me.

"There has to be something more!" Riley Poole blurted, his voice a bit choked. Ben just gazed at him, anger writhing on his greased face. He and I both shared that expression-it was one explicitly given to Riley, and usually meant one thing: shut up.

"Riley, there is no more…" Ben admitted, rubbing his hands across his forehead, as if trying to ease himself from the disappointment that oozed from his eyes. Even after Ben had told the infantile tag-along that the dead end hit us hard, he still kept talking.

"Another clue," Poole went on, glancing at his feet. He was filling the air with irritable noise-something I wasn't planning on dealing with. Before I intervened however, Ben did the honors.

"No! Riley, there are no more clues! That's it. It's over. End of the road. The treasure is gone! All gone! Now stop being so impossible!"

I had never seen Ben explode in such a way. Not at me, or his father, or even Riley. It surprised me to see his outburst, but it also was amusing to see the kiss-up finally confronted. Tears looked like they were forming in his brilliant blue eyes.

The whole time that I stood on the elevator lift, Powell and Viktor stayed right behind me. I could hear their heavy, exhausted breathing from behind me, only thicken my temper. I gazed over at Ben. He was rushing forward, Miss Chase as well as his father were right behind him-but Riley, he just took his time. He was still gazing at a loss in the empty room. Clearly he saw the same disappointment that I saw. Another false assumption made by Benjamin Gates.

By this time, I was quite tired of hearing Riley whine and complain, and was certainly through with the hellish glares that Miss Chase fixed upon me. Ben was covering up. It was obvious-and I was through with his games.

It didn't surprise me that he'd hide a clue from me-after all; I had already driven several others from him already, forcibly. Still, we were so close, and yet I could feel his mouth clenching tightly around the next clue.

"Tell me where the next clue is," Finally I managed a word in between the riot that Ben and his clash of pathetic fools were causing.

"I know there is another one. You're hiding it from me, aren't you?"

Ben's eyes fell.

I knew it! Once a liar, always a liar. I knew that personally from experience.

"Come on Benjamin, tell me where it is," I continued. Viktor and Powell grunted and managed a wail in determination. Their hope to emphasize my threat only made me feel less and less professional. I didn't need a bunch of men to be my goons. I needed my friends. Men who understood me. Men who could help me…

Ben, unfortunately, was not one of those friends. He could never know me the way Shaw did. No one could ever get that close. My methods, my reasoning, my loves and hates-everything I had confided in Shaw. The one person I needed was gone. The only other person I could count on was facing me, on the other side of the line.

"Ben, tell me!"

My patience was running out. He was being stubborn, and that sort of thing ended with people getting hurt.

"No, there is nothing more! I swear!"

"Fine then. Go!"

Quickly Viktor and Powell began to untie the ropes that fastened the elevator lift in place. I watched them with a small smirk, expecting them to come rushing for me. They did.

"Don't do this, Ian!" Ben roared, fixing a stern expression on his dirt-worn face. His brown hair was messily sticking about. Honestly, he seemed quite pathetic. That was how I knew for sure that he was hiding something. When did Benjamin Franklin Gates ever present himself at a loss? Rarely, if ever.

"You can't leave us down here!" Abigail added, tightly squeezing between Patrick and Ben. Her ocean eyes peered at me, as if she were trying to get my sympathy. I just smirked.

"Yes I can," I replied simply, continuing to pull off the rope that held the lift in place. "Unless Ben tells me what the next clue is."

Everyone stood in silence. Riley watched with a fixed expression that was both squished together and confused. It was quite amusing.

"I know there is another clue," I defended myself, especially when Ben had given me the 'you-lost-your-mind?' sort of look. Still, the look on his face was almost convincing. It was then that I had pulled out my gun, aiming it well at Ben. His devotion and refusal to tell me the truth only made me hate him.

"Tell me the next clue!" I bellowed, locking the gun-readying for the slip of my finger, and a body to fall. I would do it…he knew that. Even though I did consider him to be a prized friend, like Shaw, I was still devoted to finding the treasure-and securing my future and no righteous fanatic was going to stand in my way.

"Let's just put the gun down…and talk about this! We can all just get out alive and-

"Don't speak again!" My gun narrowed its way towards Riley. His attempt to settle the matter at hand drove my fury. I was so ready to shoot. Ben knew that! So why was he letting me get so angry? Why couldn't he just tell me the next clue? Did he want his friend's blood stained to the floor? Perhaps he and I were equally devoted to this hunt. Even if our friend's blood is spilt, we still go on-as if they were never there.

I didn't pay much attention to Riley's obedient reply because I had replaced my target back towards Ben. Sweat beaded off of his forehead. His eyes were wide, anxious, determined-pleading, perhaps? Still, I think he knew what I was feeling. I was ready for hostile action.

"Leave him alone!" Abigail roared, throwing up a fist in anger. Ben's intervention was quick; he stole the spotlight from her before the barrel of my gun reached her way. Shoving his body in front of hers, he sternly stared back at me, his forehead back in the line of fire.

"Ian, I have nothing left to give you! I swear!"

He was such a pathetic liar. Even Riley was looking suspicious, and barely amused. I was loosing my control again. Anger, distractions-things I had under control were slowly loosening back into place. Ben's stubborn ego and ridiculous passion for saving the treasure pissed me off. For a simple moment, I stepped off the platform, rage written all over my face. It burned too. I was quite surprised to find how uncomfortable I had become.

Placing the gun to his head, I growled angrily as I watched Abigail and Patrick slightly fall back, bumping carelessly into Riley. The boy barely nudged. His feet seemed as if they were glued to the cracking floor. His attention was focused only on Ben and the gun-occasionally shifting his wide eyes towards me. I could feel his nervous gaze burning my reddened cheeks.

"Tell me where the treasure is Ben, or people are going to die."

Ben shook his head.

"Then you've ended your life, right here. Right now."

Pulling back the trigger, it seemed like I was going in slow motion. Nothing seemed to be moving fast, and I was certainly not in a rush to shoot him. But before I even managed to fire a bullet at Benjamin, I felt my hand automatically shift towards Riley. He was talking. Again!

"Leave him alone, Ian! If he knew he'd tell you! I swear! But don't shoot him! You'll never get your answer if you sh—

The man never finished his words. With a thunderous roar shrieking from the barrel of my gun, and the clash of bullet against his skin, it became obvious as to what I had done.

Riley's stood awkwardly. His shaking arms barely dared to lift towards his stomach where a stain of blood appeared. His breathing heavily increased and grew louder and forced. I looked at him, somehow shocked to see the fright in his eyes. He grew so pale so dramatically fast. Even his lips were a pale white. Although I saw the blood form around him, it did not fully register, what I had done, until a small stream of scarlet trickled out the side of his mouth.

Shivering, he recoiled and looked as if he'd vomit, but was mostly gasping for air. Within a few moments, Riley stepped backwards, stumbling until finally he lost his footing, hitting the bare ground mercilessly.

I winced heavily and found myself unable to move. I did it. I shot him. I did what I told Ben I would do, but I felt a iron weight of guilt hit me.

"Riley!"

Between Abigail's screaming, Ben's loud yelling, and Patrick's nervous ranting, I didn't know what to do. The nervous shivering was starting to affect me, and I could hear Viktor and Powell mumble behind me. They too were surprised.

But why was I?

I watched them all. Ben was carefully propping Riley up against his lap, his hands cupped against his friend's pale face. He was trying to keep him in conversation, keeping him conscious. Abigail was holding his hand while trying to contain her fear and fury. Patrick sat next to Ben. I suppose he was trying to contribute as much as he could.

"I told you to just tell me, Ben…Now look. You got your friend shot."

My gun was pointed low, but at Ben nonetheless. For a moment, Ben kept himself composed. I had wished it would have lasted longer, but I did not blame him for otherwise either.

"I can't believe you shot him! How could you?" He glared at me, gesturing at me with hands covered in Mister Poole's blood. I kept a stern face.

"Don't say I didn't warn you, Benjamin! I told you! I TOLD you!"

"He was your friend too!" Ben yelled, daring himself to come closer. He yielded after a moment, after realizing I still had the gun. At least I still had the advantage. Not only was I still armed, but Viktor and Powell were both watching with alertness, stepping closer too.

"Tell me what I need to know!"

This time Patrick interrupted. Stepping forward, the older man fixed his glasses, nervously speaking up.

"It's the lantern…" He mumbled. I eyed him curiously.

"Dad, no…" Ben tried to intervene again, but Patrick vigorously shook his head.

"The status quo has changed, my son. No more blood needs to be spilt in vain. Not over this…"

I grinned satisfactorily. Finally someone who didn't want to die had the answers. Not only was I relieved, but I had hoped Ben would be.

"It's part of freemason teachings. In King Solomon's temple there was a winding staircase. It signified the journey that was to be made in order to find the light of truth. The lantern is the clue."

I arched a brow quizzically, glancing behind them, and then back at them.

"And what does it mean?" I asked, fixing my gun on Patrick.

"Boston. It's Boston…" Ben spoke up while rubbing some dirt and broken pebble off of Riley's cold, sweating face. Patrick nodded and continued on with the clue.

"The old North Church in Boston where Thomas Newton hung a lantern in the steeple to signal Paul Revere that the British were coming. One if by land, two if by sea," He glared at me, "One lantern….Under the winding staircase in the steeple. That is where we have to look."

Brilliantly I smiled and nodded. I believed every word from his mouth. Patrick was quite different from Ben in many ways. He was aged, so he had seen and been through many things to know when and what was enough; he was also not the type of man who wanted to die over treasure. The honesty in his eyes felt so real. I trusted him.

Powell and Viktor grinned triumphantly as well. Close behind me, the three of us quickly rushed for the lift once more. As they began to untie the ropes once more, I shook my head in pity.

"WAIT!" Ben pleaded, holding on to Riley as tightly as he could. "You have to take us with you!"

I only shook my head, grinning. Finally I would get the treasure. I would have it all-and she would be so proud. They all would. I would finally be free from the leash tied to my neck. Most importantly, however, my little girl wouldn't have to pretend to be someone else. Never again.

"You can't let him die down here!" Abigail and Ben pleaded, but I just let the words fade as we rose higher and higher toward the top.

I could smell victory right outside this church. And, if it led to another clue, as Ben had yelled out after me, then at least I knew where to find them.

**Holy crumpets! This was long. SORRY!**

**Did you bare through it? If you did, CONGRATS! Yay! I'm glad you read it. So…the prologue may have seemed weird, but I wanted to start somewhere that we are all pretty familiar with. I just…did it with Ian's POV and added a little of Gabby twist/angst to it!**

**So, tell me what you think…**

**Is it worth a read? Should there be more chapters? Or is this just a dinky short story? Let me know! I'll try and have a first chapter up soon.**


	2. Shoot a Friend The New Trend

**A/N: ****Yeah, so I finally added the first chapter. I was sooo pleasantly surprised to find some reviews already! With only the prologue! WHoo! Thank you all so much. I'm excited you like it. So, I hope this chapter satisfies you as well.**

**Somehow…I still feel disappointed with it. But eh. Oh well. It's the first chapter-I promise it'll be exciting.**

**So…once again, thanks so much for the reviews on the prologue! I hope others will read this story and like it. And I hope this chapter satisfies your fangirlishness!**

**And concerning Riley…**

**You'll just have to read.**

**-**

**Disclaimer: I still don't own anything, and never will…but my OCs…Sybila being included.**

**Chapter One:**

We never forget the things we want, people we hate, or loved ones we loose. Somehow, we are burned with an everlasting memory-something we're forced to remember forever. Whether we want to or not.

I could see her standing there, barely leaning over to catch a final glimpse of her sister-in-law. The pain in her eyes could barely match the throbbing that swelled inside me. It wasn't fair. Not for her, and certainly not for me.

I continued to watch her from the corner of my eye. She was trying to stand tall, but would fail occasionally, letting herself lean into me; her shoulder touching mine. Her thin framed body shivered violently, mostly due to the vigorous sobbing that she so desperately tried to hold inside.

Her sniffling and sobbing seemed to echo loudly throughout my ears, allowing the aching in my head to thrash even harder.

"We come here, on the twenty-seventh of April, two-thousand and 6, to pray that our beloved Sybila Howe will never be forgotten." Jonathan Wilson, our local priest, calmly began the sermon and eulogy. As he spoke, his old, aged voice felt like hot acid spiting in my stomach.

I was beginning to feel nauseous. I was beginning to hate him. To hate everyone, even.

Why?

Because no one knew how I felt. No one could feel the real, true anguish that planted itself into my soul. For the first time in years, I felt completely empty. I was alone. Very, very alone.

"We all nearly knew her from way back when she was but a child-running around the church in her brightly colored dresses. Her spirit was so beautiful and so caring…" As he went on, I knew it was becoming more and more unbearable. Even my sister knew it.

Gently, she placed her fingers on top of my palm, hesitating when the cold from my skin touched hers. I glanced over at her-gazing into her black rimmed eyes. Her mascara had streamed down her paling face. She looked miserable, as was I.

She felt my pain. She always did.

For a brief moment, I felt her hand lift to my cheek. Quickly she wiped away a chilling tear that managed to pry its way from my tensed eyes. No words could ever describe how pathetic I truly felt. Nothing could compare. Nothing, I felt, could understand.

I hated him.

However, I also hated to admit that I was selfish. God, however, knew otherwise. I had found that my selfishness had increased dangerously over the past weeks. All of my family, those still willing to come together, could easily see how drastically I had changed.

But who were they to judge?

Their wife wasn't taken away…

Their child's mother was stolen from them.

"Her life was tragically taken from us. God only knows why, and we, as his children, can only know that it was for a reason. Though her death was from evil hands, her soul was never touched. Her soul shall rest in peace."

When the priest had lessened in words, many of the family and friends who attended the funeral began to weep. I could hear them. All of them!

Each and every sniffle and cough throbbed madly-making me far more uneasy than I had ever been. I felt a cold, clammy sweat slide down my face. I hadn't noticed the uneasy breaths I had been taking until a small voice from behind had asked me if I was alright.

"You've been rocking back and forth, son. You sure you can stand?"

I nodded furiously, just hoping he'd shut up. He did, rather hastily too. My sister, however, didn't.

"Ian, you look awful," she whispered in-between inhauls. "You should go take a moment….get a breather, yea?" She nodded lightly, looking up to me. Her green eyes glinted with pouring tears, desperately tried to win me over.

I didn't budge.

I wasn't leaving her side.

I couldn't.

"I'm fine. Got it? Everyone! Please….I am fine!"

I hadn't noticed how loud I had yelled. Nearly everyone fell back a few steps though, so I was quickly reminded that my tone had breeched past a decent limit. Turning away, they tried to pretend my outburst didn't happen. They all glanced down at her coffin. It was white and looked porcelain. Like her skin.

But she was dead.

My Sybila was dead…

I would make Beckered pay. With every last ounce in me…he would pay. Somehow, somewhere…that man would never terrorize my family again. Never.

**Never.**

"Never…"

"You never pay attention when I'm tellin' you a story!"

With a quick shove of the shoulder, Ian felt his body slide low against the dirty table top. Heavily taking in a breath, the man glanced up.

"Finally. Sheesh! Thought you were in some psycho comma, man!" Brad laughed, sending the few others at the criminal table laughing as well.

Ian, however, was not amused.

The look on his face, and the thin glare in his eyes only explained his lack of interest in the group he was forced to sit with. What a bunch of lousy criminals, he thought, smirking lightly.

"Ah, c'mon man, you never pay attention. You're like…the only guy here who DOESN'T know the story of how I nearly lost my hand in an alley fight!" He went on, poorly bragging, as if he were some silly child in a high school.

Ian Howe barely paid any more attention to the story from what he had before. His eyes were drowsily gazing at the plain white and grey walls of the prison, occasionally glancing up at the guards who paced up and down the wide aisles between the lunch tables.

He admired them, somewhat, and hated them even more.

For the past six months he had been stuck in the pit of despair, a prison in Massachusetts. They had transferred him once before, sending him to one in D.C, but the federal agents and the involved judges and attorneys decided it best to keep him with the smaller group, in Massachusetts. How lovely.

What Ian felt was truly disappointing was the fact that he was separated from Powell and Viktor. They were left in D.C. Lucky them.

"So then he sent his knife right at my face! But I was like a cat, man! An alley cat! I spun around and kicked him where the sun don't shine!"

The constant laughter and cheers form the table only rotted Ian's stomach. He felt like he was stuck with the most juvenile prisoners ever. It was starting to become unbearable.

"You know what," Ian finally added, turning his head slightly, "No one cares if you ALMOST lost your hand. No one cares if you CROUCHED like a ninja cat. No one cares. No one ever will."

The group fell daftly quiet. Ian grinned. Finally, peace and quiet. At least he could hear his thoughts now, even though he had to admit, the recent thoughts weren't quite pretty either. The images of Sybila, dead and in the coffin only irritated him further.

"Well," Brad continued, followed by all of the men's stares, "At least I get some action! You got stuck in here for breaking into a dumb old church, and some other crap…or something…." They laughed.

Ian felt his neck and cheeks burn with fury-perhaps even a little embarrassment.

Quickly, Ian rose from his seat, pounding his foot onto the bench and leaned over, grabbing Brad's jumpsuit collar. Their gasps only brightened his pride. Good, he thought. I have their attention.

He pulled him closer, tightening his grasp, making it harder and harder for Brad to push away.

"You think it's funny when you open your big mouth, don't you? Yeah, you do. Well, I've got a surprising reality check for you, pal. It's not. And if I hear another bloody word escape from your rotting mouth, I'll punch your nose in. Alright?"

Brad just narrowed his eyes, huffing and puffing. Ian figured he was trying to hide his shivering. Nothing worse than looking like a wuss when you were stuck in prison; mixed with a group of criminals.

"And for the record…" he added, "You should do your research before accusing a criminal of his crime. You might make me angry."

"Yeah?" Brad dared, still glaring-even if his face was sweating profusely. "You ain't so tough. Not without a gun anyway," he chuckled nervously, starting a dangerous fire.

"I don't need a gun to kill someone," Ian ventured further as well. Brad's breathing rapidly increased.

"You wouldn't dare. Not me. No-I'm the only friend you got in this joint!" He mocked.

"Friend? What makes you think we are friends? I don't need friends, Bradley Wade…and if I did? I would have no problem shooting them, then leaving them in a deep, dark, dank tunnel. Interested in being my _Friend _now, Bradley?"

Ian had pulled him closer. Although he felt a bitter empowerment flood through his shackled appearance, he did regret using a mistake as part of a threat. Remembering Riley's face only placed a heavier weight on his worn shoulders.

"Set him down. That's an order!"

Ian released Brad quickly. The teaser in the officer's hands didn't look to friendly, but showed incredible desire to spark someone. Nodding to an agreement, Ian backed away from the table, feeling the officer place a firm, merciless hand against his shoulder, dragging him away from the lunch tables.

"You can skip lunch for one day, Mr. Howe," He said, and pushed him through the cafeteria doors, then heading through the halls.

"What a freak…."

**Wow….So, what did you think? NO! Don't thin it ! Go review it! Silly.**

**Hahaha. Hope you liked it. I wanted something dramatic-something powerfully devastating for Ian to enter into. I needed the drastic part touched, hoping you'd be interested in reading further, understanding his pain a bit from before. You'll know why he wanted to find the treasure soon enough.**

**-**


	3. Sweaters and Letters

**A/N: Back again. 2****nd**** chapter, ya'll! Hope you enjoy it. I hope, seriously, that it didn't seem like things were moving too fast in the story. And, honestly, I know that the actual 'plot' may be hazy still, but you'll eventually find out what's been going on. I'm debating on whether or not I'm entirely satisfied with what I have so far, with the previous two chapters. A lot of thoughts and ideas have been running around in my head…so who knows, maybe a revised update may occur. For now, however, I am rollin' with what I got.**

**For you all…**

**You, who actually read this,**

**Cheers!**

**I love you all so much.**

**And thank you for the reviews! 3**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but my OC's. As always.**

**Chapter Two: **

"Everything is fine, so stop worrying."

She told me to relax, reassuring me that everything was fine, as if I would actually believe her.

With every ounce in my body, I cherished my sister and her words of wisdom, but at this particular moment, I felt like everything she had to say meant nothing. It simply blew right past me.

I was acting so stubborn, so childish-and certainly afraid.

I did not think she actually blamed me for worrying, though.

If it were her child, she would feel the same.

Maybe…

"Ian, take a breath will you? I've already called some friends, some neighbors, the Police even, asking if they've seen her, or anything suspicious. We will be okay, SHE will be okay, but only if you take your panic and shove it out the window!" I arched a skeptical brow towards Alexandria. Her strong face had 'trust me' blatantly written upon it. All I could do was nod my head low.

Running her fingers through my hair gently, she tugged at my raggedy strands lightly, pulling for my attention. I looked up, scanning her curious green eyes. Eyes like our mother's.

"Dakota is the craziest kid I have ever known, Ian, she's gonna be fine-no matter what you think has happened, okay?" I didn't nod this time, even if my neck ached to. I wanted to admit she was right, even if the pit in my stomach, and fast-beat of my heart felt otherwise.

"But what if-

"Hey! Less talk, please?" She said patting my shoulder quickly before she darted off into the next room, heading for the telephone once again. Most likely Alex was making another call-meaningless, really. I was tired of our neighbors pretending not to be home. Simply saying, 'no, we haven't seen her' wasn't such a burden, honestly!

After about tens more minutes of my mindless pacing, rearranging random objects and trinkets that we kept in the house, my heart had stopped.

Walking towards our house, in a rather slow and unpleasant manor, an officer approached. His dark, ebony face looked displeased, if not in a slight distress.

"Ian!! Look- She paused, starring at me I suppose. I knew she saw exactly what I had already seen. Quickly she ran toward my side, stopping at the window near the door, peering out. "What's he holding?" She asked, almost in a whisper. I imagined she didn't want me to be too worried about it, nevertheless, I was.

"He's holding…:" I felt a choking fear close in my throat. My head suddenly felt like it wanted to whirl around and around, not stopping until I did.

"What? I can't see! You know my vision sucks!" She blurted rather bluntly, placing her hand above her eyes, like they usually do in movies, to block out the sun. She acted like it would help her see better.

"What is it?!" She asked again.

"Her sweater…"

**Her Sweater. Her birthday sweater.**

"Awake, are we?"

Barely able to shift from his current position, Ian managed to turn his head low-getting a strange sideway view of his cellmate. Waking from such a disappointing dream, on a terribly uncomfortable jail cot, didn't quite wake him with a spring. His discomfort, however, only made the older man smile.

"You were mumbling. Like usual."

Ian felt his green eyes blink slowly, hardly able to lift them once again, well, without feeling perfectly miserable. A rough, cold chill began to fill his chest. Grunting and moaning, Ian turned around, letting his sweat-covered back face the man's wrinkling face. Ian wasn't quite in the mood to deal with August today; Even if his rather unusual presence brought more advantage to him when he was lonely, or simply bored.

"Was it another dream about her? I take that as a yes?" He implored, chuckling only briefly before a hoard of coughs broke in from his silence. Ian never understood why the prison held such an ill, old man at a prison like this. And whatever his cause for being there was, Ian doubted it was any worse than shop-lifting. Like a lot.

The man seemed utterly harmless. He was charming, witty, filled with stories that even Ben, he knew, and would admire to hear from time to time. In fact, Ian had noticed that several of the same stories Ben had told him, back when he had the privilege of treasure hunting, were the same. History. How it moved certain people…

August Sike was roughly in his sixties, Ian had noted, and was balding-save for the hair that ringed around his head, puffing up from behind his ears. His face was a scraggily mess. White and grey strands of hair masked his wrinkled face. It was a wonder that the man wasn't constantly itching at his nose. The hair shot out everywhere! He was also a thin fellow. He looked like he could hardly lift a book from time to time. Still, Ian figured he was more than what met his eyes.

"The good things about bad dreams are, well, at least they go away, usually replaced by a better one," he continued to talk. He usually did. Somehow, the older man found things to talk about, even if it was to himself, in the complete dark. Many times Ian had let out a loud laugh, or a chuckle just from something he managed to overhear while dozing off, or minding his own business.

"What makes you think it was a bad dream?" Ian's voice felt scratched and groggy. It didn't seem like Ian would be falling back asleep. Not with August chatting, and, by the looks of it, was rather hoping for Ian to contribute to the conversation.

"Well, firstly, you were sweating. Then you were mumbling," He said while pointing a rigid finger at him, a glint of 'so obvious' in his small, black eyes. "And now, as you were before, you're clutching that note in your hand rather firmly. I assume it holds some importance…something valuable, perhaps?"

At August's mention of the small note in his hand, he felt a small twitch flick at his shoulder. Turning around, Ian laid on his side, half glaring at the older man for always finding an interest when it came to picking into Ian's past. Arching a firm brow, Ian noted the man still glancing at the note.

The little note was burning beneath his fingers now. With the attention drawn to it, Ian felt like it had its own mind. It was passionately screaming for someone to read it. Or, at least for an explanation.

"It's nothing…" He mumbled, and pulled it closer to his chest, holding it there for a single moment.

"Nothing? Seems to be definitely something. But what I wonder…" An even brighter glint had shone in his eyes. Ian smirked, nodding gently.

"That interested? Fine then…"

Gently Ian handed the letter over. August took it into his old, thin palms, holding it delicately, as if it were a rose petal. Ian admired the caution and delicacy he had. At least he knew nothing bad would happen to it. Even if it was just a note.

_"Dear Daddy_," August began, rather poetically. Ian just grinned

"_It's my birthday again. I'm eleven! Finally! Guess what? Alex says we will get to come see you soon. You still staying at Grandma's house? Bet you are! Bet you got lots of gold hidden away in sock drawers! She never looks there. Don't let her find it. She'll spend it all on cat food. Sophie doesn't even eat that stuff anyway! Love you lots! _

_Dakota_

_p.s…_

_I found that old, smelly sweater you loved so much. The one I got from grandma when I was seven, remember? I found it in your closet. I miss you."_

When August had finished with the letter, he clasped his hands upon it, holding it close to his chest. The older man had a sweet, yet simple smile placed on his face; He seemed at peace, and so comfortable.

"It's her birthday, I take it," August finally piped up from his contented silence. Ian let out a soft chuckle, more of a faded, in memory, sort of chuckle. His green eyes just gazed past the older man, past the brick walls, past existence. He could see Dakota's face. It was brightly glowing, her brown hair messily floating about, and her mouth smiling wide-a few teeth missing even.

She was eleven now! The last time he had seen her, it was nearly two years ago.

It felt like all those months of treasure hunting, of 'friend-making' and 'law-breaking' was now completely worthless. And it was. All because Ben had proved him wrong. Ben put him in prison.

"Gates…" Ian grumbled, rubbing hid forehead. Slowly irritation started to flow in. He didn't care that he was wrong. He didn't care that Benjamin Franklin Gates did what he did because it was the right thing to do. Sure, he had respect for it, in a way, but over all, he felt disappointed. Maybe even hatred? Just a little?

He fought hard, and for so long, just trying to find that treasure. Beckerd gave him a simple task. Simple, written on paper maybe, but overall, Ian honestly thought that the success of finding the Templar Treasure would ensure Beckerd's end of the deal. He swore he would have found it. He swore that he would get his family out of the mess it had always been in. No thanks to his father, Charles.

Nevertheless, Ian Howe failed. As always.

Why did Ben have to win? How come, a man who was barely even respected got to find the most incredible spoil in the entire world? Why him? Why not Ian?

Selfishness looked as if it would ooze from every single pore on his body. Luckily it didn't, thank goodness.

"Ian?"

He hadn't noticed the man's sudden concern from Ian's silence, and tense behavior. Obviously some un-needed buttons had been pressed.

Within what seemed like a moment, August had appeared at Ian's side, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. Ian glanced up, surprised.

"Not everyone can find the Templar Treasure, son."

What?

Furrowing his brows in confusion, and wonder, Ian shot up from resting on his side. He moved away from August slowly, glancing at him, arms holding him up by resting his palms on his knees.

"So you do know about that…" Ian mumbled. "I started to wonder…"

"Well," August admitted, grinning nonetheless, "Most, I think, do. After all, you're famous for being known as the bad-guy who almost stopped Gates from discovering the Nation's greatest treasure!" He added with a wave of his arms.

"Great..."

"Well, news does manage to spread around, you know. I'm shocked to find you surprised. After all, Benjamin Gates has become quite the celebrity. His entourage has as well. Well, you'd know who I'm talking about. That pretty Official lady, em, Miss Chase? Oh yes! And that Poole kid. Got shot didn't he? Died or something. I don't know. He's not mentioned much."

Ian's body tensed even more while a sharp inhale accenting his distress. August nodded.

"Ah, had you written all over it. Luckily, Mr. Howe, he didn't die. You got lucky there, otherwise you'd be here for a lot longer than you've been sentenced for. You may be stuck here forever, but at least not Eternity forever," he managed to make it funny, adding his own laugh to brighten the odd mood that managed to corrupt their previous silence.

"Why thank you for that inspiring information, Mr. Sike. I'll take it to heart," he added, and grabbed the letter from the old man.

"Better than worse, I always say."

Ian managed a laugh. However, their odd merriment died rather swiftly. Moments after, one of the officers came toward the cell. A half smile was smudged onto his youthful face, alarming Ian just slightly.

When the officer reached the cell door, he quickly unlocked it, fingering for Ian to come over.

"You've got yourself a visitor, Mr. Howe."

Without another word, Ian rose and headed out through the iron gated door. Looking behind him, he felt his heart quicken a bit, mostly from the expression that dimmed on August's face. It looked suspicious and less than satisfied. Something was not right.

They passed through the hallways quickly, moving by the visiting rooms, the local offices, and any other common room. He kept an eye on the different rooms they passed. Each and every hallway seemed to lead lower and lower into a pit of uncertainty. Where was he going? Obviously not the visitor's booth.

When they reached a door single door, on the end of a blackened hallway, Ian began to question the officer in charge.

"Where exactly are we going? I thought I had a visitor-

"He's right inside. Go on, Mr. Howe."

Turning the tight knob to the right, Ian gently pushed his weight on the door when a small click was made. When he peeked inside, a small light illuminated a table.

Ah lovely.

Interrogation.

Something he was familiar with.

At least…that was what it appeared to be.

Sitting in the chair, however, was a man dressed in thick, deep reds. It was a suit of fine materials, exotic texture, and money. Not your typical FBI or CIA agent. This man was from a whole other power.

He also had the worst kind of smile chisled into his face.

"Come in Mr. Howe. We've got a nice, long conversation ahead of us."

The door closed behind him.

**Um, bored? I hope not. I'm terrible at planning things, so I was trying to fit in information that was needed as best that I could. I know, I know! A dorky, dull chapter. But, I was trying to ease into his character a bit-trying to get you all questioning, and liking this side of Ian, before his bad, instinctive side comes out. Well….what do you think? Come on. Tell me. Please?**

**Any ideas or thoughts are totally loved!**

**Chapter three will be up next. I promise a lot more information and action will be in that one!**

**The plot only thickens.**


	4. Murder, MrHowe?

**A/N: 3****rd**** chapter for you, guys! I hope you like it. **

**Daisyduke80- Don't you worry. He isn't dead. Not literally anyway. -**

**Alasse Greyhame- Normally I wouldn't imagine him to be so guilty either, but I wanted the emotions of what he was going through to sort of overwhelm him. He has so many things hanging on a thread. Naturally, I've been doing a lot of thinking about it. I do see your point. So, of course, I am disappointed with that bit in the prologue. I actually wasn't even going to have him shoot Riley in the first place…but for some reason, it happened. My Riley fangirlishness overwhelmed me. Shame shame. I know. It would have made more sense if it were Ben though. Lol.**

**And thank you all so much for loving the story so far, and reviewing me to continue. That makes me happy.**

**And Thuraya Known, all of your reviews make me so happy! Thank you.**

**Disclaimer: Nope. Don't own anything…except for those little people called OCs!**

**Chapter Three:**

The offer sat on the table.

It glinted figuratively, pressing several thoughts through Ian's head all at once. They swirled around, delving into different ditches, each with a possible outcome that didn't end up quite so pleasantly in the end.

It was another trick.

He knew it.

"Mr. Howe," The man in the red, expensive suit began to speak up again. "Your current situation is unacceptable, and yet, for some reason, you are quite hesitant to take the offer." He slowly leaned forward, pressing his broad chest against the table top. The strange, hissing noise of his leather gloves rubbing against each other, as he folded his fingers together, distracted Ian a bit. It did not amuse the man.

"Why?"

Ian also leaned on the table, folding his hands in the same fashion. His intentions were mocking.

"I am in a prison, Mr…?" He ended, hoping for this 'businessman', of sorts, to finish off with some sort of alias.

"Pratt. Seymour Pratt."

Ian smirked, but continued on with defending his reasons not to.

"Well, Seymour, my current living situation makes this, as well as just about anything, quite difficult, if not impossible." The man just laughed. It was a hollow, merciless laugh. Ian hated that sort of laugh.

"Have you not already registered the amount of authority I have? Mr. Howe, I do not think you fully understand the situation. I've made it very clear…" He began, readying himself to simplify the bargain he had already offered.

"The man I work for has more resources, more money, and more than enough man-power to get the things that he wants done. As you already know, he is not the type of man to leave his contract with an employee incomplete. Now, because of your…mishap, back with Gates, we have altered our plans for you. We've managed to extend your contract with Mr. Beckerd. I had a way in here, Mr. Howe, so I certainly have a way to get you out."

Ian was intently listening. The second time explained made things a bit clearer. Also, he had to admit, it did sound slightly appealing. However, this was Beckerd he was dealing with. Nothing Beckerd did, or said, fixed any situation

Why?

Because he was the reason for being in a situation in the first place!

He was a maniacal monster.

He was the only reason Ian ever went off to find the Templar Treasure in the first place. Though, he had to admit, he became quite fond of it. The enthusiasm and wonder that filled Benjamin Gates had rubbed on him a bit.

"How?"

Seymour grinned slightly. He cracked his thick neck back and forth, grinning even wider when he heard that irritable popping noise. Ian shrugged to lean back in his chair, arms dangling to the side.

"Mr. Howe, we have a little trip all arranged for you. I will be more than glad to reveal our methods, once, however, you give me your full devotion to Mr. Beckerd. Do we have an accord?"

He sat silent, glancing down from Pratt toward the tabletop, starring at the light ringlets that formed from the poor lamp that hung above.

"And what if I deny this…bargain? What does he plan on doing then?"

The words made him angry. Not with Pratt, but with himself. Why did he ask that? Now he was certain he would see the outcome-the real outcome, something he knew he would ultimately regret knowing. It would only make him worry even more.

Pratt showed no sign of hesitation. Within a moment's length from when Ian had first asked the question, Pratt had placed his hand into the side of his coat, pulling out a gun. A rather expensive, decorative gun.

"I'm surprised you had to ask."

Ian shook his head, biting down on his lower lip in anxiety. Well, he knew that answer! Knew it from the start. That was always Beckerd's method. Kill the weakest link. Take out the trash.

"I'm in."

"Good! Beckerd will be more than pleased to hear your answer."

Standing up, Seymour took a place at Ian's side. Placing his hand down on Ian's shoulder, he dragged him closer. Ian groaned lightly, but looked up-catching the brown of Seymour's eyes.

"This is how it will go down, Mr. Howe," He continued, placing a great deal of pressure onto Ian's left shoulder.

"When you return to your cell, with all records of 'visitation' being erased, you will find your roommate dead. With a set amount of evidence pointing to the fact that you were his killer, the Officers will detain you, question you, and in the morning, our appointed official will escort you to your interrogation and sentence site. On your trip, Mr. Howe, be alert toward the cars around you. Tomorrow, you will be a free man."

And that was it.

Without another word, Seymour Pratt had left the room.

Not long after Pratt's exit, the officer who had taken Ian, returned. He grinned madly-as if he had just received the biggest check yet.

"Ready to commit murder, Mr. Howe?" He joked, pushing back on Ian's chair.

Funny.

The last time someone had asked him that, he was in a somewhat different circumstance.

**Funny**…

"Ah, Mr. Howe-you truly are a funny man," I heard him say, oddly, like he usually did. I just eyed him curiously, catching a glimpse of his deviant grin that smeared on his childish face. He was completely entertained. However, Ben and I both had to agree on this, but Riley was rather easily entertained. So, it was no surprise that a strange fishing experience would entertain the young tag-along.

"Try catching fish like that again and we'll all be doomed," he added with a chuckle, bending over in the stream, his dirty jeans rolled up to his knees. I just rolled my eyes, starring off into the stream once again; eye a rather plump fish that wiggled near us.

"You see, Ian," He added, quickly shoving his wet hand in front of his face, attempting to move the brown hair from his eyes, "You have to be skilled in catching weird, slimy, scaly, ugly things. And you, Mr. Howe-are not one of those people."

I let out a loud laugh. Did this kid even know what he was talking about? He looked like he was about to fall over! And here he was, acting like some sort of Ninja fish catcher. I was very hopeful for the boy to make a fool of himself. He usually did.

"And I suppose you are one of those kinds of people?" I stared him down, smirking when he nearly lost his balance due to the slime on the bottom of the lake. He took in a few breaths, looking downward at the fish.

"No."

"Oh? So then why are you judging my survival methods, Mr. Poole?"

He just looked up briefly.

"Because, Ian. You looked stupid."

Suddenly a thick wave of heat, as well as anger, rushed over my face. Whether or not he saw the anger in my eyes, I couldn't tell. All I knew was that before I had reached him, hoping to shove him in the water, the boy had lost his balance nonetheless.

Falling face first into the streaming, cool water, Riley flung his arms around, desperately trying to pick himself up in a hasty manner. I just stood there. I just laughed.

"Now who looks stupid," I added, laughing even as he stood up, drenched in stream water.

Riley shook his head and arms violently, as if he were some dog. The water sprayed aimlessly, carelessly splattering on me. I

"Oh haha. Yes, laugh it up. Go on. Get it out of ya…"

I did just that.

After awhile of trying to catch fish, with no proper tools, thanks to Benjamin, I grew tired of watching Riley pretend to get better and better. We were hungry. I was angry. Ben was busy-and I didn't feel like we could afford to waste any more time.

Swiftly I drew my hand for my pant pocket, in the back. There, where I always kept it, I pulled out my gun. Locking and loading it, I felt a triumphant grin drawing itself onto my face as I pointed down at the fish.

Riley stood silent. If I had spent more time observing him, I would have seen a more appalled look on his face, rather than curious, which was what I had at first thought.

The kid barely moved. His feet looked as if they had been buried deep beneath the stream's goop and mud. His blue eyes, however, were glued to the gun. It didn't look like anything else was registering. Was he even breathing? Well, of course he was-but he was as stiff as a board. Finally, he spoke.

"Gun...that's-wow, gun..."

I fainly nodded.

"Sure is."

"Ian, what are you doing?"

I arched a brow high, but kept my eyes on the fish.

"Fishing."

"Um, no. Not with that thing!" He pointed shakily, as if he was hesitant to even look at it. I sensed a slight phobia.

"Oh no? And how else are we going to get some food, Riley? I'm done playing around and wasting time. I'm hungry."

Riley scoffed, folding his arms tightly against his chest.

"So then, you're really going to shoot the fish? Just…shoot it?"

"Yep."

"Well then," he added, as if offended by my efforts to get us a fast meal, even if it was a little barbaric, and probably very unsanitary, "You ready to commit murder, Mr. Howe?" He asked, arching a brow.

I felt like I would laugh. Again. He wasn't serious, was he? Oh, but he was.

"It's a fish, Riley! Take it easy. You're acting like I'm killing a person or something. You do know that we have to kill the fish anyway, right?" I aimed back at the fish.

"Yeah…but you don't have to…shoot it, you know."

"Yeah, but I'm going to anyway."

I didn't care if it bothered him. I didn't care if, when he was younger, he had some terrible experience involving a fire arm. I didn't really care. It wasn't my problem-but he insisted that it was. I did what I had to. Mercilessly, of course, which I was rather certain he had picked up.

But we ate.

Why?

Because I was ready to shoot. I solved our problem the way I always did best.

**Well, another short chapter. And I am sorry that the transition from reality to flashback was confusing. I'm just messing around with the two perspectives-and I know it is confusing, and I probably could find a much better way to do it…but for the mean time, it's all I got.**

**So…yeah. Thought I would add a little Riley in there.**

**The next chapter will be next, and, I promise, the story will be heading for some action!**

**Woo!**

**Just, let me know what you think….or, if you got some ideas, send em my way!**

**Also, I want to see your ideas but, why do YOU think he has a gun phobia? (totally made his phobia up, but hey, I wanted some interaction from ya, lol).**

**Next chapter will be up soon!**

**-**


End file.
